Wearing Drag in Middle School Saved My Life

"I sashayed my way to my desk and sat down with a gentle toss of my hair."

I hated middle school. As a gay kid attending a public school in suburban Albuquerque, New Mexico, in the mid-'90s, not a single day went by when I wasn't teased, harassed, or physically assaulted by my classmates. I was called a fag and told I was going to die of AIDS and go to hell. A boy in my home economics class even lured me outside one day during lunch so he and his friends could knock me down and kick me while reading to me from their youth Bibles.

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

I tried reporting this abuse to teachers and administrators, but their response was always the same: "I didn't see or hear it, so there is nothing I can do." My only hope was for one of my many bullies to attack me in front of a teacher, so it wouldn't just be my word against theirs.

One day, a group of boys beat me up after gym class. After a while, I saw a teacher come around the corner and look at us. I thought I would be saved, but he walked back the way he came without saying a word.

I walked to my next class feeling even more defeated than usual. Immediately, the kids around me started mocking me for something I had done earlier in the day. I couldn't take it anymore. "Fuck you!" I screamed, banging my fists on the table. Everyone laughed, and Brent*, the ringleader, called out to one of our teachers, "Charley cursed!" as I started pulling out my hair and crying.

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

Mr. Crane* took me outside. He said he wouldn't send me to the principal, but that I was bringing this kind of teasing on myself by getting so upset and I needed to control myself if I wanted it to stop.

I sat outside for a few minutes to compose myself, and when I returned to my desk, Mr. Crane and the other two teachers, Ms. Paul* and Ms. McKinnon*, were presenting our next class project — a Wild West murder mystery. On the board was a list of characters based on the real-life occupants of a 19th-century New Mexico town. We were each going to dress up like a character and try to solve the mystery. There were not a lot of women in the Old West, Mr. Crane explained, which was why there were almost twice as many male characters as female ones, so some of the girls would have to play boys. "And who knows, there might even be one or two boys who have to play girls," he said as the class burst out laughing.

Right away my classmates started guessing which character each student would choose. When a know-it-all girl selected the school teacher, everyone said, "Of course," and when Brent's name was called, he turned to the class and asked, "Which one am I going to choose?"

"The sheriff!" everyone shouted as Brent smirked.

Next, it was my turn.

"Which one am I going to choose?" I asked, just like Brent had.

"The prostitute," my class responded, by which they meant the Sally the saloon girl.

I wasn't hurt. It was what I expected, and if that was what they wanted, then fine. I'd give it to them.

"OK," I said as Mr. Crane crossed my character off the board.

When I got home, I told my mother that I would be playing the saloon girl the following week and would need an appropriate costume. She was anxious at the idea, but I assured her that it was my choice and that I was actually excited about it.

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

The truth is, I was excited. I had taken the role out of spite, but, honestly, being a saloon girl sounded like a lot more fun than dressing up like some boring cowboy.

My mother and I went to a thrift store and found a fluffy purple prom dress and a pair of matching purple pumps. At a wig store I chose a shoulder-length red wig with blunt-cut bangs. It was $30, which my mother considered excessive, so I paid for it with my own money. Finally, we stopped by the drugstore for some black liquid eyeliner and pink lip gloss.

Back at home, I practiced walking in my new high heels while my mother began taking in the size 16 dress to fit my skinny 12-year-old frame. Then I borrowed her Clinique blush and eyebrow pencil, and practiced putting on makeup.

All that week after school, I would put on my makeup and dress, and practice walking in my heels. I would cross my feet as I strutted down an imaginary runway, trying to make my hips sway like the models on TV. At the carpet's edge I would toss my hair to one side, wink, or blow a kiss to the photographers I imagined were waiting there to take my picture, and then turn and walk away.

Anne Manning

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

By the time Friday came along, I was so revved up to play Sally that it was all my mother could do to convince me not to wear my costume all day. Instead, I waited until after gym class and changed in the boys' bathroom. Despite all my practice, I was still only half-dressed by the time the tardy bell rang, and I had to put on my heels and wig as I ran through the empty halls.

When I burst through the door, Mr. Crane was explaining the rules of the reenactment, and as everyone turned to look at me, rather than chastise me for being late, he just smiled and said, "Well, there you are, Sally! Get on in here!"

I sashayed my way to my desk and sat down with a gentle toss of my hair.

"You look mighty fine today, Miss Sally," Ms. McKinnon said.

I did look good, I thought to myself. Damn good.

"Thank you," I said, batting my mascaraed eyelashes.

I expected everyone to stare and whisper, but all eyes were on Mr. Crane, and as I listened to him explain our assignment, any lingering nervousness I felt about my decision to wear a dress faded away.

As Mr. Crane concluded his instructions, I realized I had left my glasses in the bathroom and jumped up to retrieve them.

"Where you goin', Miss Sally?" Mr. Crane asked.

"Women's troubles!" I exclaimed with a dismissive wave of my hand.

When I returned to class, I dove right in and started gathering clues to solve the mystery, but it was difficult to get the other kids to share information with me. I soon grew bored and decided the real fun was in playing up my character and being the biggest, most brazen Sally the saloon girl I could be. I blew kisses at the reverend. I shook my toilet-tissue tits at the farmer's wife. I even perched on Sheriff Brent's desk and batted my eyelashes at him until he got so squirmy that he called over Ms. McKinnon to complain.

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

"Well, that's just Sally being Sally," she said. "If you don't like it, you can just get a move on."

"Oh, he likes it," I said with a wink.

When the 3:30 bell rang, I didn't want to leave. I felt amazing and strong, and, for once, not even a little bit scared. Rather than changing back into my boy clothes, I walked straight out to the parking lot, where my mother was waiting to take me for ice cream.

My paper attempting to solve the murder mystery was a failure — I didn't accurately identify a single element of the case, let alone the killer — and yet, it came back with a big red A+++. Mr. Crane even presented me with an award for my portrayal of Sally: Best Female Character Performance. As I accepted my award, I waited for the teasing to finally start, but it didn't. My teachers clapped for me and, amazingly, my classmates joined in. I couldn't believe it.

Anne Manning

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

Over the next few years, I continued to dress in drag from time to time, but never again at school. I had gotten away with it once, but I wasn't sure I would be so lucky a second time. Besides, that first time had been perfect, and I knew nothing after that could compare.

Instead, I took my drag private. After school I would change into my wig and put on my makeup before turning on the TV and having a snack. I would walk back and forth in a nightshirt I pretended was a minidress and remember how good it felt to be Sally that day. If I was having an especially difficult time, I would put on my full Sally ensemble and twirl around the living room in my heels until I fell down.

For a while, I thought that maybe I wanted to be a drag queen, or even a woman. I even went as far as wearing makeup and a skirt to the dinner table with both my parents once.

"Look at your beautiful son," my mom said when I debuted my look to my father.

I had made a point of never letting my father see me walking around as Sally.

"Oh, wow," he said, his eyes wide. He was quiet for a moment, staring at me thoughtfully. Then he turned to my mother.

"OK," he said, "so what's for dinner?"

We all headed to the kitchen, and that was it.

Anne Manning

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

Soon after that, I started to lose interest in dressing in drag. Something about eating dinner in my wig and makeup like it was no big deal just killed it for me. It was all too normal and that wasn't why I did it. I loved the creativity and theatricality of drag, but I didn't want to be a girl. I didn't even want to be a drag queen really. I liked being a boy.

I stopped with the makeup entirely, but I kept my Sally outfit for a long time, and I would put it on in the privacy of my room when I was feeling especially low.

Eventually I grew out of the shoes and the dress, but I didn't bother to get new ones. I didn't need them. By that time, I had left the Albuquerque public school system and was well into high school at a small, exceedingly liberal prep school where no one ever uttered a single word to me about my supposed homosexuality, let alone called me a fag or threw food at me in the cafeteria. I didn't need to dress up like Sally to relive my school-age triumph anymore because I was excelling all over the place. I was at the top of my class. I had friends. I was even elected student body president.

Even so, it wasn't until winter break of my junior year of college that I got up the courage to return to my old middle school. I wanted to visit my seventh-grade teachers and show them how well I was doing, but as I walked those old halls, every doorway and locker brought back memories of my tortured adolescence. By the time I reached my old classroom, I felt lightheaded and out of breath.

When I opened the door, Ms. McKinnon was there, still at her same old desk, and she screamed and jumped up to hug me. Mr. Crane had stopped teaching, but Ms. Paul was still in the building and Ms. McKinnon took me to see her as well.

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

"We were so happy when we heard you left public school," Ms. Paul said. "We were really worried you might kill yourself if you didn't get out of here."

Apparently my mental state had been a topic of conversation among members of the faculty and Ms. McKinnon, Mr. Crane, and Ms. Paul had even gone as far as lecturing the class about being nicer to me one day when I was out sick (or, more likely, pretending to be sick).

I brushed all this off with a jaunty, "I'm great!" but I was shocked. I had struggled with suicidal thoughts throughout middle school, but I never talked about them openly. The idea that my teachers had seen that potential in me and said nothing to me or my parents made me angry. How dare they not help me more!

I only grew more upset on the drive home. I even thought about going back to the school again and confronting Ms. Paul and Ms. McKinnon, but what good would it do? And, really, compared to other teachers and administrators, they did a lot for me. They even let me hang out in their classroom after school rather than making me wait outside where they knew I would be bullied. More than that, they created a space for me to express myself in new and provocative ways, whether as Sally or as one of the many other over-the-top characters I played during class projects that year. Not only that, but they praised and rewarded me publicly for the very thing that so often made me a target: being different.

Of course, it was my time as Sally that meant the most to me. The remainder of seventh grade had been a nightmare, and eighth grade wasn't much better. But even when things were at their darkest, I could still return to my triumph as Sally the saloon girl to boost my spirits. Not all the time, but sometimes. Often enough that killing myself felt like a waste. I knew that I could be happy, even though most of the time I wasn't. And I knew that no matter how alone I felt, there were people out there who would appreciate me. I had found them once, and I would find them again.

A Part of Hearst Digital Media
Cosmopolitan participates in various affiliate marketing programs, which means we may get paid commissions on editorially chosen products purchased through our links to retailer sites.